


like you're satin in a coffin

by grumdark



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/F, F/M, abuse tw, noncon tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumdark/pseuds/grumdark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>it was your own pride that had been moth-bitten and rotted away with each open-mouthed kiss and each strangled breath (his or yours?). your own fault, damn you. you damn yourself in the back of your skull every chance you get.</em><br/>-<br/>before/during/after the events between demeter and macavity. demeter's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like you're satin in a coffin

what were you trying to prove? (leaving/causing trouble/letting him in)

nothing to the tribe. you didn’t feel as if you had Anything to prove to them. too nice. too too nice/good/safe.

to yourself? maybe. it’s more likely that you craved your heart in your throat and something stinging and hot inside your mouth (you’d bitten the wet red meat inside your cheek too many times.) (bite your tongue.)

he was in front of you. the first thing you noticed was his height. you wondered if he was noticing the same thing about you.

_a monster! of depravity!_

you stood as tall as you could and hardened yourself, ignoring the synchronized anxious twitching of each organ in your gut. he smiled. teeth teeth teeth and they were a mess in your lips/mouth/neck/everything below that. 

and he _was_ wonderful in bed.  
_was_ , you must specify, because if you said he IS, you would be a liar.  
(you would be out of character)

in all truth, his presence was menacing. but wasn’t that what you liked about him in the first place? you kept the phrase under your tongue. this is what i like. this is what i asked for. it bubbled and bit and ghosted against your teeth. after all, how could you go back?

it wasn’t a matter of acceptance that ate at your innards. they would welcome you back with open arms, no doubt. after all, you’ve done nothing wrong (that they know of) (she’s gold and small and a little Crazy) (not Crazy Enough)

no, no. it was your own pride that had been moth-bitten and rotted away with each open-mouthed kiss and each strangled breath (his or yours?). your own fault, damn you. you damn yourself in the back of your skull every chance you get.

you remember when he was exciting. when your ribcage ached with the need for something More Than This. this, which was comfort/home/family/friends/safety. this which every pore in your body tingled at the thought of, now.

“this” had been replaced with THAT. that which was all red and claws and cigarette breath and his fingers in your hair and in your mouth and (i’m tired) you’re against the wall and (let’s take a break) his teeth scrape your mouth and (not right now please) you know there’s blood and (this hurts/it hurts/ow/ouch) you somehow preferred the dull pain of scabby knuckles against your cheekbone

and

"it was just a reflex, Dem." he heaves an UN-A-PO-LO-GE-TIC apology. your name. 

[ **DEMETER** : mother of Persephone, goddess of the harvest/corn/grain. it never made sense] [Dem was enough]

somehow you accept it. you damn yourself again.

...

the next time, it’s you murmuring

“it was a reflex” you said you didn’t mean it.

did you?


End file.
